BALLADS 
OF  A   X£ 
BOOK-WORM 
BY    J$^i     » 
IRVING   BROWNE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Library  of 
HELEN  AND  ALEXANDER  MEIKLEJOHN 


Being  a  Rythmic  Record 
of  "Thoughts ',  Fancies •,  @f 
Adventures  a-collecting 


DONE  INTO  A  PRINTED  BOOK  BY  THE 
ROYCROFTERS  AT  THEIR  SHOP,  THAT 
IS  IN  EAST  AURORA,  ERIE  COUNTY, 
NEW  YORK,  U.  S.  A.— MDCCCXCIX  -•> 


t      CONTENTS 

1  Course  of  True  Book- Buying    *        .      *y     g 

2  Book  Catalogues  by  Mail  .         .         .12 

3  An  Alphabetical  Misfortune      .        .        .     15 

4  Cesar  Birrotteau          .        .        .        .        .17 

5  How  a  Bibliomaniac  Binds  his  Books      .     18 

6  The  Bibliomaniac's  Assignment  of  Binders  21 

7  On  a  Book  Bound  in  Red  Morocco    .        .     23 

8  The  Failing  Books     |»  j4     •         •         •         .24 

9  Suiting  Paper  to  Subject    .        .        .        .26 

10  The  Book  Seller          . /t     .        .        .         .     28 

11  The  Stolid  Auctioneer        .        .        .        .    30 

12  The  Prophetic  Book  .        .        .         .32 

13  The  Attentive  Book  Seller          .        .        .34 

14  My  Uncle     .         .         .         •     /  ^     .         .     36 

15  The  Annual  Digests    .        ,;       .        .        -38 

16  The  Shy  Portraits       .       ^        ...     40 

17  The  Snatchers     .        .        •-<     •        •        •     43 

18  The  Public  Librarian        :  .        .        .        •     45 

19  The  Librarian's  Death        .        .        .        .48 

20  The  Sentimental  Chambermaid         .        .    50 

21  A  Woman's  Library  »        .        .        •    5* 

22  Porthos*  Library         f     ,  ,• .       •        •         -55 

23  Gordian        .         .        .         .        .        1 s      .     57 

24  The  Book- Worm  Does  Not  Care  for  Nature  58 

25  How  I  Go  A-Fishing  ....     60 

26  Tityrus 63 

27  Magdalen 67 

28  The  Guide  Book 6 


ag  The  Hymn  Book       *     -••»-     .        .        .      70 

30  The  Oath  Book       „        .       * .        .        .      71 

31  Reading  Out  of  Doors     ? .        .        .        .72 

32  Reading  Menander's  Songs      .        .        .      75 

33  The  Modern  Reader          .        .*'      .        .      76 

34  "  Reading  Maketh  a  Full  Man"        .        .      77 

35  The  Holy  Man  .        ...        .        .78 

36  The  Decameron  and  the  Heptameron     .      80 

37  Jane  Gray  .        .        .        .        .        .        .      82 

38  Hamlet's  Book       *  ;"      .        .        .        .      83 

39  The  Prosy  Side  of  Life     ....       86 

40  The  Two  Books      '.        .        .        .        .      89 

41  A  New  England  Act  of  Faith  .        .      91 

42  Samuel  Johnson's  Penance      ...      93 

43  At  Shakespeare's  Grave    ....      97 

44  My  Favorite  Book 99 

45  The  Book-Thief 101 

46  The  Tramp,  His  Dog,  and  Their  Book   .     103 

47  Cleaning  the  Library       '  >        .        .        .     106 

48  A  Literary  Jettison  .  .        .108 

49  Ode  to  Caliph  Omar          .        .        .        .no 

50  My  Friends  the  Books      .        .         .         »*"3 

51  The  Fire  in  the  Library    .         *        .         .     116 

52  Companions  in  Death       .        .        .        .     118 

53  The  Doll  Brought  Up  on  Greek        .         .119 


Of  this  edition  there  were  printed  and  il- 
lumined by  hand  eight  hundred  and  fifty 
copies.  Each  volume  is  signed  and  num- 
bered and  this  book  is  No. 


Copyright 

1899 
Elbert  Hubbard 


THE  NONPARIEL 

All  day  the  patient  printer  stands, 
And  agate,  pearl  and  diamond 

Picks  up  with  swift,  untiring  hands 
And  weaves  them  in  a  storied  bond. 

And  minion,  too,  and  eke  brevier, 
Sometimes  selects,  for  larger  choice, 

And  bourgeois  also,  which,  I  fear, 
He  generally  calls  "  burjoice." 

My  wife  lets  me  buy  books,  and  so, 
If  I  survive  her  tale  to  tell. 

That  all  this  rarest  type  may  know, 
I  '11  print  her  life  in  nonpariel. 


FOREWORD: 

BEING  USEFUL  HINTS  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

| N LESS  you  love  books  aside  from 
their  contents,  do  not  read  this  book 
at  all.  It  is  not  meant  for  mere  read- 
ers. 

Do  not  read  it  through  religiously  by 
course,  nor  put  in  a  mark  to  tell  where 
you  left  off. 

Do  not  first  turn  to  the  end  to  see  how  it  "  comes 
out." 

Do  not  censure  the  punning  unless  you  yourself 
can  make  a  good  pun,  for  no  one  who  could  do 
that  ever  denounced  the  habit.  Punning  may  be 
"  the  lowest  form  of  wit,"  but  it  is  a  form,  &  was 
recognized  and  approved  by  Shakespeare,  Lamb, 
Holmes,  Hood,  Saxe,  while  Dr.  Johnson  could 
not  have  made  a  pun  to  save  his  life. 
Do  not  suppose  that  the  writer  is  always  literal, 
and  that  what  he  has  written  is  always  his  own 
real  experience  or  serious  opinion.  Use  a  little  im- 
agination, if  you  have  it  handy,  and  read  between 
the  lines  now  and  then.  Poets  are  not  always  talk- 
ing of  themselves. 

When  the  writer  puts  words  into  the  mouth  of 
Ignatius  Donnelly  or  Andrew  Lang,  do  not  rush 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  approves  what  they  are 
thus  made  to  say,  as  some  have  done. 
Having  read  the  book,  do  not  write  to  the  author 


or  the  publisher,  saying  you  could  make  just  as 
good  verses  yourself  if  you  had  a  mind,  for  neither 
would  believe  it. 

If  you  feel  moved  to  write  to  the  newspapers  or 
magazines  about  the  book,  do  not  say  "  the  poems 
are  of  very  unequal  merit  " ;  for  that  is  a  rodent 
expression,  and  the  poems  were  intended  so  to  be. 
An  unvarying  plane  of  interest  or  merit  is  tedious. 
Besides,  readers  themselves  are  of  unequal  merit 
in  power  of  appreciation. 

Finally,  to  the  women,  some  of  whom  the  author 
loves  and  many  of  whom  he  admires, — when  you 
read  " A  Woman's  Library"  or  "Cleaning  the 
Library,"  do  not  pronounce  him  "sarcastic"  and 
"  horrid,"  but  understand  that  in  those  verses  he 
merely  let  his  imagination  run  riot  in  conjecture 
as  to  what  would  happen  if  women  collected  books 
or  habitually  put  them  back  after  cleaning  the 
shelves. 

I.  B. 


BALLADS  OF  A  BOOKWORM 


OF  TRUE  BOOK-BUYING 

N  daily  walks  adown  the 

street 
A  bookworm  passed  a 

shop 

Where  tempting  wares 
the  vision  greet, 
Sometimes  compel  a 

stop. 
Here  cTay  by  flay  for  near  a  year 

In  window  fkir  displayed, 
A  book  of  aspect  quaint  and  dear 

His  active  pate  delayed. 
Its  bnlliant  Ink,  jits  leaves  so  white, 

Itslmarge  unspiled  by  thumb, 
Its  hu^Jnitisrfs  colored  bright — 

Rare  incunabulum — 
Unto  a  Grolier  pattern  tooled 

On  leather  flushing  meek 
In  red  like  that  which  erstwhile  ruled 
An  ancient  spinster's  cheek ; 


Book    And  on  each  PaSe  there  was  a  border 

Worm       ®f  birds  and  beasts  and  insect  things, 

Ballads    w^ich  some  old  monk  had  set  in  order, 

Diversified  with  babes  with  wings. 
Its  price,  expressed  in  figures  three, 

For  him  would  never  do, 
For  in  his  humble  treasury 
The  figures  were  but  two. 

He  sold  old  clothes  and  shabby  we  nt, 

His  tiresome  clubs  disused, 
His  wife  became  quite  discontent 

When  he  new  rings  refused. 
By  prudence  and  economy 

His  figures  slowly  grew, 
And  when  they  mounted  up  to  three 

The  book  declined  to  two. 
With  beating  heart  he  bought  that  tome, 

He  hugged  it  to  his  breast, 
And  sly  conveyed  it  to  his  home 

And  hid  it  with  the  rest. 
For  months  he  just  adored  that  book, 

Gazed,  smelled,  felt,  almost  read, 

12 


Braving  his  wife's  suspicious  look  Book 

With  ill-dissembled  dread ;  Worm 

But  now  he  seldom  takes  it  down,  Ballads 

Its  charms  unheeded  lie, 

He  passes  with  an  absent  frown 
Or  unregarding  eye. 

Let  me  explain  to  curious  men 

Why  he  's  indifferent  grown : 
It  was  that  other  fellow's  then, 

But  now  it  is  his  own. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


BOOK  CATALOGUES   BY  MAIL 


X 


AM  a  victim  of  the  "  cat," 
It  comes  by  every  mail, 

Sometimes  expressed   in 

language  that 
To  comprehend  I  fail. 


These  booksellers  are  so 

polite ; 
variety 

Of  prefixes  oft  makes  my  sight 
Ache  with  satiety. 


The(  Italia*^  alwfeys  dubs  me  "  Sig.5 

iat  does  iy  signify  ? 
For  tnhJLsksfll  not  care  a  fig 
In  the  sweet  buy  and  buy. 


The  Germans  write  me  down  as  "  Herr,' 

Because  they  mean  a  him ; 
Their  gender  always  makes  me  stare 

With  glances  cold  and  grim. 
12 


With  "  Mons."  the  Frenchman  christens    Book 
me ;  Worm 

"  My  Lord,"  he  means  by  that ;  Ballads 

To  Democrats,  this  seems  to  be 

Peculiarly  flat. 

Even  John  Bull,  so  blunt  and  rude 

Reputed  oft  to  be, 
Appears  to  think  he  may  intrude 

Unless  he  "  Misters  "  me. 

With  "  Esq."  my  name  is  tailed 

Which  I  do  not  admire — 
For  that  which  anciently  was  mailed 

Was  not  a  low  esquire. 

Sometimes  the  vendors  dub  me  "  Hon." 

With  deferential  cough ; 
But  when  that  syllable  I  con 

It  simply  sends  me  off. 

Sometimes  they  open  with  "Dr." 

Strange  compliment  to  send  ! 
I  'd  rather  have  it  there  by  far 

Than  at  the  other  end ! 

13 


Book     *  wish  to  state  to  those  who  write 
Worm         ^  "  Pr°f-"  before  my  name, 

Ballads     *  '**  kil*  'em  certainly  on  s^ht, 
Without  a  fear  of  blame. 

The  only  one  who  has  success 
Is  he  who  sets  me  down 

Upon  the  catalogue's  address, 
Merely  as  Irving  Browne. 


AN  ALPHABETIC^JL-MTSFORTU! 

ROM  catalogues  of  dis- 
tant Bibliopole 
For  many  years  I  or- 
dered books  by  mail ; 
No  purchaser  on  me  a 

march  e'er  stole, 
And  I  but  seldom  found 
my  order  fail. 

I  never  wasWith  him  a  friend  or  pet, 
Indeed  we  ihad  acquaintance  very  slight ; 

But  in  the  orcrer  of  the  alphabet 
He  thought  flp  mail  his  catalogues  was 
right. 

And  as  my  namdlis  up  among  the  B's 

I  hadjio  rivals  [but  the  few  in  A, 
And  ^wift  uW>n  this  circumstance  to  seize, 
ire  bacgkins/I  obtained  without  delay. 

The  Grbcft^slmd  White's,  and  others  lower 

down, 

Toiled  panting  after  me,  like  Time,  in 
vain; 

15 


look 

> 

Worm 
Ballads 


Book    They  failed   to   comprehend  why  lucky 
Worm  Browne 

Ballads       Should  beat  them  all  upon  an  equal  plain. 

But  one  fell  day  we  had  a  serious  quarrel 
About  a  missing  plate  in  one  long  set, 

In  which  we  used  some  epithets  immoral, 
And  he  swore  he  'd  get  even  with  me  yet. 

And  since  that  time  no  bargains  have  I  had, 
For  now  he  starts  his  mailing  clerk  at  Z ; 

I  waste  my  postage  and  am  driven  mad — 
There 's  nothing  left  when  he  gets  up 
*&    to  B. 


16 


CESAR  BIRROTTEAU 

ALKING  in  gloom  and 

almost  in  despair 
Upon  the  stony-hearted 

boulevard, 
The  peasant  saw,  piled  in 

a  hamper  there, 
Some  books  marked 
cheap  upon  the  vendor's  card. 


And  leaning  wearily  against  a  tree 
He  gleaned  from  one  of  those  poor  books 

the  hints 

tat  through  the  alembic  of  perfumery 
laised  him  to  station  of  commercial 
prince. 

>'  fall  and  failure  came,  yet  one  sweet 

scent 
Clung  to  his  honored  name,  on  all  tongues 

rife, 

Owed  to  no  book — the  honesty  that  lent 
Eternal  fragrance  to  a  noble  life. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


HOW  A  BIBLIOMANIAC  BINDS  HIS 
BOOKS 

'D  like  my  favorite  books 

to  bind 
So  that  their  outward 

dress 
To  every  bibliomaniac's 

mind 

Their  contents  should 
express. 

Napoleon's  fife  should  glare  in  red, 

John  Calvin's  gloom  in  blue ; 
Thus  they  womld  typify  bloodshed 
reliion's  hue. 

:ringjrecord  of  the  past 
be  inblue  and  black ; 

r  that  is  fast 
Would  do  for  Derby  track. 

The  Popes  in  scarlet  well  may  go ; 

In  jealous  green,  Othello ; 
In  gray,  Old  Age  of  Cicero, 

And  London  Cries  in  yellow. 
18 


My  Walton  should  his  gentle  art  Book 

In  salmon  best  express,  Worm 

And  Penn  and  Fox  the  Friendly  heart  Ballads 
In  quiet  drab  confess. 

Statistics  of  the  lumber  trade 

Should  be  embraced  in  boards, 
While  muslin  for  the  inspired  Maid 

A  fitting  garb  affords. 

Intestine  wars  I  'd  clothe  in  vellum, 

While  pigskin  Bacon  grasps, 
And  flat  romances  such  as  "Pelham," 

Should  stand  in  calf  with  clasps. 

Blind  tooled  should  be  blank  verse  and 
rhyme 

Of  Homer  and  of  Milton; 
But  Newgate  Calendar  of  Crime 

I  'd  lavishly  dab  gilt  on. 

The  edges  of  a  sculptor's  life 

May  fitly  marbled  be ; 
But  sprinkle  not,  for  fear  of  strife, 

A  Baptist  history. 

19 


B     ,     Crimea's  warlike  facts  and  dates 
^y  Of  fragrant  Russia  smell ; 

Ballad     ^^e  su^JuSate^  Barbary  States 
In  crushed  Morocco  dwell. 


I  don't  like  Owen  Meredith — 
Perhaps  it  is  a  whim — 

He  so  lacks  energy  and  pith 
Lucile-skin  does  for  him. 

But  oh !  that  one  I  hold  so  dear 
Should  be  arrayed  so  cheap 

Gives  me  a  qualm ;  I  sadly  fear 
My  Lamb  must  be  half-sheep ! 


THE  BIBLIOMANIACS  ASSIGN- 

MENT OF  BINDERS 
^^^r^   F  I  could  bring  the  dead 

xjfyfo    to"day' 

/      ml  \^/     I  would  your  soul  with 
/    *%  wonder  fill 

^*^  1  By  pointing  out  a  novel 

g^       I  1  way 

/    \  For  bibliopegistic  skill. 


Or  else  I 
Matthews 


sh 


should  take  in  hand, 
give  him  o  'er  to  Hering; 
ld  make  the  Gospels  stand 


A  solemn  wrning  to  the  erring. 


Tb 


of 


e  Inquisition, 
ith  all  its    iabolic  train 
Of  cmeli^aila  superstition, 
Should  fitly  be  arrayed  by  Payne. 

A  book  of  dreams  by  Bedford  clad, 
A  Papal  history  by  De  Rome, 

Should  make  the  sense  of  fitness  glad 
In  every  bibliomaniac's  home. 

21 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Book    As  our  first  mother's  folly  cost 
Worm         Her  sex  so  dear,  and  makes  men  grieve, 
Ballads     So  Milton's  plaint  of  Eden  lost 
Would  be  appropriate  to  Eve. 

Hayday  would  make  "  One  Summer"  be 
Doubly  attractive  to  the  view ; 

While  General  Wolf's  biography 
Should  be  the  work  of  Pasdeloup. 

For  lives  of  dwarfs,  like  Thomas  Thumb, 
Petit' s  the  man  by  nature  made, 

And  when  Munchausen  strikes  us  dumb 
It  is  by  means  of  Gascon  aid. 

Thus  would  I  the  great  binders  blend 
In  harmony  with  work  before  'em, 

And  so  Riviere  I  would  commend 
To  Turner's  "Liber  Fluviorum." 


22 


ON  A  BOOK  BOUND  IN  RED  MO- 
ROCCO 

HIS  skin  once   invested 

an  Indian  goat, 
As  he  pranced  in   his 

mountain  land ; 
It  is  not  the  natural  hue 

of  his  coat, 

But  conferred  by  a  hu- 
man hand ; 

id  yet  we  read  in  fashion  notes 
Of  Varments  christened  redingotes. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


THE  FAILING  BOOKS 

^         HEY  say  our  books  will 

disappear, 
That  ink  will  fade  and 

paper  rot — 
I  sha'n't  be  here, 
So  I  don't  care  a  jot. 


The  bdet  of  them  I  know  by  heart, 
As  fonlhe  rest  they  make  me  tired  ; 

The  viler  part 
May  well Nbe  fired. 

Oh,  what  a  hypbcritic  show 
Will  be  the  bibliomaniac's  hoard ! 

Cheat  as  hollow 
As  a  backgammofl  board. 


Just  think  of  Lamb  without  his  stuffing, 
And  the  icoifocl^etid  Ho  wells, 

Who  spite  of  puffing 
Is  destituteW  bowels. 


'T  would  make  me  laugh  to  see  the  stare  Book 

Of  mousing  bibliomaniac  fond  Worm 

At  pages  bare  Ballads 
As  Overreach's  bond. 

Those  empty  titles  will  displease 
The  earnest  student  seeking  knowledge, 

Barren  degrees, 
Like  these  of  Western  College. 

That  common  stuff,  "  Excelsior," 

In  poetry  so  lacking, 
I  care  not  for — 

'T  is  only  fit  for  packing. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


SUITING  PAPER  TO  SUBJECT 
RINTERS  the  paper 

should  adapt 
Unto  the  subject  of  the 

book, 
LUS  making  buyers 

wonder-rapt 
Before  they  at  the  con- 
tents look. 

erbohm's  learned  book  on  Eggs 


a  l^id  paper  he  should  print, 
y's  "  Dutch  Republic  "  begs 
er  should  its  matter  hint. 


That  curiAus  problem  of  what  Man 

Inhabited  the  Iron  Mask 
ThajrWlatman  paper  never  can 
suggestive  medium  ask. 


of  Dates,"  by  Mr.  Haydyn, 
Should  be  on  paper  calendered  ; 
That  Swift  on  Servants  be  arrayed  on 
A  hand-made  paper  is  inferred. 
26 


Though  angling-books  have  never  been          Book 
Accustomed  widely  to  appear  Worm 

On  fly  paper,  't  would  be  no  sin  Ballads 

To  have  them  wormed  from  front  to 
rear. 

*% 

The  good  that  authors  thus  may  reap 

I  '11  not  pursue  to  tedium, 
But  hint,  for  books  on  raising  sheep 

Buckram  is  just  the  medium. 


27 


Book  THE  BOOK  SELLER 

Worm         lf[  E  stands  surrounded  by 

Ballads  mS^-^  ^^  rare  tomes 

I  Which  find  with  him  their 

transient  homes, 
He  knows  their  fragrant 

covers ; 
[e  keeps  them  but  a  week 

or  two, 

irs  then  their  charming  view 
fbliomaniac  lovers. 

An  enviable  man,  you  say, 

To  </wn  such  wares  if  but  a  day, 

id  handle,  see  and  smell ; 
But)all  th€  timfevhis  spirit  shrinks, 
As  pandering  through  his  shop  he  thinks 


H&onlyEeeps  io  sell. 


The  man^whp^ouys  from  him  retains 
His  purchase  long  as  life  remains, 

And  then  he  does  n't  mind 
If  his  unbookish  eager  heirs, 
Administering  his  affairs, 

Shall  throw  them  to  the  wind. 
28 


Or  if  in  life  he  sells,  in  sooth,  Book 

'T  is  parting  with  a  single  tooth,  Worm 

A  momentary  pain ;  Ballads 

Book  sellers,  like  Sir  Walter's  Jew, 
Must  this  keen  suffering  renew, 

Again  and  yet  again. 

And  so  we  need  not  envy  him 

Who  sells  us  books,  for  stark  and  grim 

Remains  this  torture  deep, 
This  Universalistic  hell — 
Throughout  this  life  he  's  bound  to  sell ; 

He  has  but  cannot  keep. 


THE  STOLID  AUCTIONEER 
ET  not  a  sad  ghost 
From  the  scribbling  host 
Revisit  this  workaday 

sphere ; 

He  '11  find  in  the  sequel 
All  talents  are  equal 

they  come  to  the 
auctioneer, 

i 

Not  a  whit  cares  h 

What  the 
Whether  m 

A  folio 

Or  an 
Or  a  Tupper, 

Without  any  qualms, 

He  knocks  down  the  Psalms, 
Or  the  chaste  Imitatio, 

And  takes  the  same  pains 

To  enhance  his  gains 
With  a  ribald  Boccaccio. 

30 


He  rattles  them  off,  Book 

Not  stopping  to  cough,  Worm 

He  shows  no  distinction  of  person  ;  Ballads 

One  minute  's  enough 

For  similar  stuff 
Like  Shelley  and  Ossian  Macpherson. 

A  Paradise  Lost 

Is  had  for  less  cost 
Than  a  bulky  "fifteener"  in  Greek, 

And  Addison's  prose 

Quite  frequently  goes 
For  a  tenth  of  a  worthless  "  unique." 

This  formula  stale 

Of  his  will  avail 
For  an  epitaph  meet  for  his  rank, 

When  dropping  the  gavel 

He  falls  in  the  gravel, 
"  Do  I  hear  nothing  more  ? — gone — to — ?  " 


Book  THE  PROPHETIC  BOOK 

A  CROIX,"  said  the  Em- 
Ballads  t          /%  peror,    "  cease     to 

beguile ; 

These  bookstalls  must 
go  from  my  bridges 
and  quays ; 

vNo  longer  shall  trades- 
men my  city  defile 

With   mouldering\hideous  scarecrows 
like  these." 

r~s~ 

While  waltymg  that  l\ight\ivith  the  biblio- 

phili 
On  the  QUai  Malaqjfais,/by  the  Rue  de 

Saints\Peres, 

The  Emperor  sScwr-wifh  satirical  smile, 
Enkindling  his  stove,  in  the  chill  even- 
ing air, 

With  leaves  which  he  tore  from  a  tome  by 

his  side, 
A  book  seller  ancient,  with  tremulous 

hands ; 
32 


And  laying  aside  his  imperial  pride, 
"  What  book  are  you  burning  ?  "  the 
Emperor  demands. 

For  answer  Pere  Foy  handed  over  the 

book, 
And  there  as  the  headlines  saluted  his 

glance, 

Napoleon  read,  with  a  stupefied  look, 
"  Account  of  the  Conquests  and  Victories 
of  France/' 

The  dreamer  imperial  swallowed  his  ire ; 
Pere  Foy  still  remained  at  his  musty  old 

stand, 
Till  France  was  environed  by  sword  and 

by  fire, 

And  Germans  like  locusts  devoured  the 
land. 


33 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


THE  ATTENTIVE 

-iff  WHY  does  the  book 
«j|  seller  follow  my  path 

jyp     I  Like  a  hound  on  the 

/  tiger's  track  ? 

/  His  smile  so  commercial 

awakens  my  wrath, 
And  I  turn  a  non-inter- 
course back. 


>es  ht  think  mat  his  volumes  will  disap- 


Unless  ne  shall  keep  me  in  view  ? 
For  fcis^upjiCHdate  "  issues  he  need  not 

fear, 
I  loathe  every  book  that  is  new. 


I  'm  looking  for  something  he  never  has 

seen, 

Or  perhaps  for  just  nothing  at  all, 
In  hope  that  some  treasure  my  vision  may 

glean 
As  it  ranges  the  cloth-covered  wall. 

34 


"  May  I  wait  on  you,  sir  ?  "  said  a  maid  at      Book 

my  side,  Worm 

For  the  twentieth  time  in  a  store ;  Ballads 

"'No,  madam,  I  thank  you,"  I  coldly  re- 
plied, 
"  I  am  married  " — I  heard  nothing  more. 

But  the  bitterest  pill  that  is  ever  prescribed, 

That  throws  me  almost  in  a  fit, 
Is  showing,  when  everything  good  is  de- 
nied, 

A  volume  that  I  have  just  writ ! 


35 


MY  UNCLE 

ELL,  vot  haf  you  got,  & 
how  moosh  do  you 
vant? 
Pooks  ton't  good  secur- 

ty  seem. 

If  you  ton't  reteem  'em, 
why  sell  'em  I 
can't, 
st  you  always  reteem." 

is  a  famous  historical  book, 
Labelled  «  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall.'  " 
"  Shust  put  him  one  side,  for  I  ton't  like  his 

look, 
Nor  fancy  his  title  at  all." 

"Well,   'Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations,'— 

that  sounds  rather  rich, — 
His  name  was  n't  John  Smith,  but 

Adam." 
"  Oh,  dose  vealths ! — John  or  Adam,  I  ton't 

care  vich, 

If  I  only  shust  vonce  had  'em." 
36 


41  Here  's  'Ivanhoe  ' — tells  of  old  Isaac  the 

Jew, 

Who  rather  than  part  with  his  cash,          Worm 
Surrendered  his  teeth,  though  he  had  but  Ballads 

a  few." 
"  Dot 's  right — he  could  lif  upon  hash." 

"  *  Miscellaneous  Sports,  Including  the 
Rules  '— 

For  this  you  should  have  many  calls." 
"  Let  me  see — oh,  I  guess  nopotty  but  fools 

Likes  to  read  about '  three  passed  balls.' ' ' 

"  Now  here  is  the  last  one,  I  'm  sure  it  will 

please ; 

It 's  all  about  you  and  your  trade." 
"  What 's  his  name  ?  oh,  *  Adventures 

among  the  Pawnees,' — 
I  takes  him — I  see  he  got  flayed." 

"  Twelf  folumes — twelf  shillin  will  pe 

apout  right — 

A  shilling  a  volume  is  high — 
Six    tollar !  you  're   shoking — why,  dot 's 

out  of  sight ! — 
Call  it  tree — no?  well,  den,  coot  pye." 

37 


Book 
WbrriiC 
Ballads 


THE  ANNUAL  DIGESTS 


nag  no  law 
Contained  more  words 

than  twenty  -two, 
The  books  which  Gulliver 

there  saw 
Seemed  huge  as  hay- 

stacks to  his  view. 


They  towered  some  twenty  feet  in  height, 
And  were  proportionately  wide, 

And  he  was  given  of  steps  a  flight 
To  mount  and  read  from  side  to  side. 

No  end  or  limit  know  our  laws, 
The  annual  digests  swell  and  grow, 

Expanding  swift,  without  a  pause, 
Their  huge  impending  shadows  throw. 

These  on  our  backs  their  authors  pin, 
Like  burden  bound  by  Pharisee, 

Or  Christian's  wallet  full  of  sin, 
Or  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 
38 


These  books  portentious  threaten  soon          Book 
To  make  our  bored  profession  sadder,       Worm 

And  publishers  must  grant  the  boon 
To  give  with  every  one  a  ladder. 


39 


THE  SHY  FOR' 

-*-— -""**" 

,  why  do  you  elude  me 

so — 
Ye    portraits    that    so 

long  I  've  sought  ? 
That  somewhere  ye  exist, 

I  know — 
Indifferent,   good,    and 

good  for  naught. 

Liicrezia,  tiFtfes,  poisoned  cup, 
\Why  (po  you  shrink  away  by  stealth  ? 
kot  view\$roujp  "  mjug  "  with  you  I  'd  sup, 

AV"l  /"I       A«TA*^       s4s*«*A&S>      s4**4«^1^      T  T /"\  1  I  •*•      V»  £i  <^«  1  4-V\ 


^  WAkAA     y  vx  v*    ^      ^«    u  i, 

drink  your  health, 


Oh !  why  so  coy,  Godiva  fair  ? 

You  're  covered  by  your  shining  tresses, 
And  I  would  promise  not  to  stare 

At  sheerest  of  go- diving  dresses. 

Come  out,  old  Bluebeard ;  don't  be  shy  ! 

You  're  not  so  bad  as  Froude's  great  hero; 
Xantippe,  fear  no  law  gone  by, 
When  scolds  were  ducked  in  ponds  at 

zero. 
40 


Not  mealy-mouthed  was  Mrs.  Behn,  Book 

And  prudish  was  satiric  Jane,  Worm 

But  equally  they  both  shun  men,  Ballads 
As  if  they  bore  the  mark  of  Cain. 

George  Barrington,  you  may  return 
To  country  which  you  "  left  for  good ;  " 

Psalmanazar,  I  would  not  spurn 

Your  language  when  't  was  understood. 

Jean  Grolier,  you  left  many  books — 
They  come  so  dear  I  must  ignore  'em — 

But  there 's  no  evidence  of  your  looks 
For  us  surviving  <l  amicorum." 

This  country  's  overrun  by  grangers — 
I  'm  ignorant  of  their  Christian  names, 

But  my  afflicted  eyes  are  strangers 
To  one  I  want  whom  men  call  James. 

There's  Heber,  man  of  many  books — 
You  're  far  more  modest  than  the  Bishop; 

I  'm  curious  to  learn  your  looks, 
And  care  for  nothing  shown  at  his  shop. 


Book      And  oh !  that  wondrous,  pattern  child ! 
Worm          His  truthfulness,  no  one  can  match  it ; 
Ballads      Dear  little  George  !  I  'm  almost  wild 
To  find  a  wood- cut  of  his  hatchet. 

Show  forth  your  face,  Anonymous, 
Whose  name  is  in  the  books  I  con 

Most  frequently ;  so  famous  thus, 
Will  you  not  come  to  me  anon  ? 


THE  SNATCHERS 

HE  Romans  snatched  the 

Sabine  wives ; 
The  crime  had  some 

extenuation, 
For  they  were  leading 

lonely  lives 

And  driven  to  reckless 
desperation. 

Lord  Elgin  stripped  the  Grecian  frieze 

Of  all  its  marbles  celebrated, 
So  our  art^students  now  with  ease 

Consult  tfte  figures  overrated. 

Napoleon  stole^the  southern  pictures 
And  hung  them  up  to  grace  the  Louvre ; 

And  though  he  cmild  not  make  them 

fixtures,       \ 
They  answered  as  an  art-improver. 


Bold  men  rathsack  a] 
And  withfthe  mui 


Egyptian  tomb, 
mies  there  make  free ; 
43 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Such  intermeddling  with  Time's  womb 
™  May  aid  in  archeology. 

Ballads     So  Cruncher  dug  up  graves  in  haste, 
To  sell  the  corpses  to  the  doctors ; 
This  trade  was  not  against  his  taste, 
Though  Misses  "flopped,"  and  vowed 
it  shocked  hers. 

The  modern  snatcher  sponges  leaves 
And  boards  of  books  to  crib  their  labels; 

Most  petty,  trivial  of  thieves. 
Surpassing  all  we  read  in  fables. 

He  pastes  them  in  a  big,  blank  book 
To  show  them  to  some  rival  fool, 

And  I  pronounce  him,  when  I  look, 
An  almost  idiotic  ghoul. 


44 


THE  PUBLIC  LIBRARIAN  Book 

IS  books  extend  on  every    Worm 

side,  Ballads 

And  up  and  down  the 

vistas  wide 
^^^^  His  eye  can  take 

/  them  in ; 

^      /  He  does  not  love  these 

books  at  all, 

Their/isefulness  in  big  and  small 
e  counts  as  but  a  sin. 

all  day  long  he  stands  to  serve 
public  with  an  aching  nerve  ; 
them  with  disdain — 
The  sttdent  with  his  huge  round  glasses, 
Toe  mafcUffi  fresh  from  high  school  classes, 
tetic  brain ; 

The  sentimental  woman  lorn, 
The  farmer  recent  from  his  corn, 
The  boy  who  thirsts  for  fun, 
The  graybeard  with  a  patent-right, 

45 


Book  ^e  Pedagogue  °f  school  at  night, 
Worm  The  fiction-gulping  one. 

Ballads 

They  ask  for  histories,  reports, 

Accounts  of  turf  and  prize-ring  sports, 

The  census  of  the  nation ; 
Philosophy  and  science  too, 
The  fresh  romances  not  a  few, 
Also  "  Degeneration." 

"  They  call  these  books !  "  he  said  &  throws 
Them  down  in  careless  heaps  and  rows 

Before  the  ticket-holder ; 
He  'd  like  to  cast  them  at  his  head, 
He  wishes  they  might  strike  him  dead, 

And  with  the  reader  moulder. 

But  now  as  for  the  shrine  of  saint 

He  seeks  a  spot  whence  sweet  and  faint 

A  leathery  smell  exudes, 
And  there  behind  the  gilded  wires 
For  some  loved  rarity  inquires 

Which  common  gaze  eludes. 

46 


He  wishes  Omar  would  return  Book 

That  vulgar  mob  of  books  to  burn,  Worm 

While  he,  like  Virgil's  hero,  Ballads 

Would  shoulder  off  this  precious  case 
To  some  secluded  private  place 

With  temperature  at  zero. 

And  there  in  that  Seraglio 

Of  books  not  kept  for  public  show, 

He  'd  feast  his  glowing  eyes, 
Forgetting  that  these  beauties  rare, 
Morocco-clad  and  passing  fair, 

Are  but  the  Sultan's  prize. 

But  then  a  tantalizing  sense 
Invades  expectancy  intense, 

And  with  extorted  moan, 
"Unhappy  man!"  he  sighs,  "condemned 
To  show  such  treasure  and  to  lend — 

I  keep,  but  cannot  own !  " 


47 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


THE  LIBRARIAN'S  DEATH 

PASS  my  days  in  stand- 
ing on  a  ladder 
And  handing  books 
down  to  the  ignoble 
throng ; 

The  occupation  makes 
71  me  yearly  madder 

To  see  those  readers 
osfcig  always  wrong. 

Of  Humboldttin  the  very  same  position 
I  have  a  picture  hanging  on  my  wall ; 
But  h^TsSn  a  ileasanter  condition — 

does/not  fcerve  the  populace  at  all. 

He  ^ands  unifn  the  ladder  absent-minded, 
His  arfffs  well  filled  and  books  between 
his  knees, 

And  to  all  outward  circumstances  blinded 
He  reads  another  volume  at  his  ease. 

And  not  infrequently  I  'm  struck  with 
wonder 


That  I  don't  fall  in  apoplectic  fit 
At  hearing  people  hesitate  and  blunder, 

Not  knowing  what  they  want  a  little  bit. 

Ballads 

I  know  in  inextinguishable  laughter 
Some  day  I  '11  drop  on  hearing  their 

queer  terms, 

And  'mid  the  echoes  rising  to  the  rafter 
Become  fit  food  for  ravening  book- 
worms. 


49 


Book 


Ballads 


THE  SENTIMENTAL  CHAMBER- 
MAID 

HEN  you  're  in  Paris,  do 

not  fail 
To  seek  the  Quai  de 

Conti, 
Where  in  the  roguish 

Parson's  tale, 
Upon  the  river  front  he 
Bespoke  the  pretty  cham- 
bermaid 
Too  innocent  to  be  afraid. 

this  bookseller's  mouldy  stall, 
Crammed  full  of  volumes  musty, 
ade  a  bibliophilic  call, 

d  saw,  in  garments  rusty, 
e  ancient  vendor,  queer  to  view, 
breeches,  buckles,  and  a  queue. 

And  while  to  find  that  famous  book, 

"  Les  Egaremens  du  Cceur," 
I  diligently  undertook, 
50 


I  suddenly  met  her ; —  Book 

She  held  a  small  green  satin  purse  Worm 

And  spite  of  time,  looked  none  the  worse.    Ballads 

I  told  her  she  was  known  to  fame 

Through  ministerial  mentor, 
And  though  I  had  not  heard  her  name, 

That  this  should  not  prevent  her 
From  listening  to  the  homage  due 
To  one  to  sentiment  so  true. 

She  blushed ;  I  bowed  in  courtly  fashion ; 

In  pockets  of  my  trousers 
Then  sought  a  crown  to  vouch  my  passion, 

Without  intent  to  rouse  hers ; 
But  I  had  left  my  purse,  'twould  seem — 
And  then  I  woke — 't  was  but  a  dream  ! 

The  heart  will  wander,  never  doubt, 

Though  waking  faith  it  keep ; 
That  is  exceptionally  stout 

Which  strays  but  in  its  sleep  ; 
And  hearts  must  always  turn  to  her 
Who  loved  "Les  Egaremens  du  Cceur." 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


A  WOMAN'S  LIBRARY 
^~y^      DO  not  care  so  much 

for  books, 
But  libraries  are  all  the 

style, 
With  fine  "  editions  de 

luxe" 

One's  formal  callers  to 
beguile ; 

WirtTneat\dwarf  cases  round  the  walls, 

And  chink  teapots  on  the  top, 
The  empty  shelves  concealed  by  falls 
lia  silk  that  graceful  drop. 


few¥are  etchings  greet  the  view, 

,ike  "Harmony  "  &  "  Harvest  Moon  ' 
An  artistes-proof  on  satin,  too, 

By  what's-his-name  is  quite  a  boon. 

My  print  called  "  Jupiter  and  Jo  " 
Is  very  rarely  seen,  but  then 

Another  copy  I  can  show 

Inscribed  with  "Jupiter  and  lo," 
52 


A  fisher-boy  in  marble  stoops 
On  pedestal  in  window  placed, 

And  one  of  Rogers'  lovely  groups 

Is  through  the  rich  lace  curtains  traced. 

And  then  I  make  a  painting  lean 
Upon  a  white  and  gilded  easel, 

Illustrating  that  famous  scene 

Of  Joseph  Andrews  and  Lady  Teazel. 

Of  course  my  shelves  the  works  reveal 
Of  Plutarch,  Rollin  and  of  Tupper, 

While  Bowdler's Shakespeare  &  "Lucille" 
Quite  soothe  one's  spirit  after  supper. 

But  when  I  visited  dear  Rome 
I  bought  a  lot  of  photographs, 

And  had  them  mounted  here  at  home ; 
And  though  my  dreadful  husband  laughs, 

I  've  put  them  in  "The  Marble  Faun," 
And  envious  women  vainly  seek 

At  Putnam's  shop,  from  early  dawn, 
To  find  a  volume  so  unique. 

53 


Book    Here,  once  a  week,  in  deep  surmise, 
Worm        Minerva's  bust  above  us  frowning, 

Ballads    ^  c^u^  °^  women  analyze 

The  works  of  Ibsen  and  of  Browning. 


54 


r 


PORTHOS'  LIBRARY 

ORTHOS,  expectant  of  a 

rope-end, 
Bequeathed  his  books 

to  Bragelonne, 
They  were  "  quite  new 

and  never  opened," 
A  fact  he  plumed  him- 
self upon. 
:  thousand  volumes,"  said  the  will, 
it  Porthos  none  of  them  had  read  ; 
onl 


pastime  was  to  kill, 
oks  but  served  to  tire  his  head, 
ge  and  mighty  tomes  were  those, 
riate  to  such  a  giant  ? 
rtiantine  folios 

trong  grasp  would  prove  quite 
tot 

ssiles  fraught  with  fatal  harm, 
ca^e  of  seige  of  his  chateau, 
Propelled  by  his  balistic  arm 
Upon  the  aggregated  foe ! 
The  leaves  he  never  would  have  cut 

55 


Aidb 
Wh^ith 

Appro 
Such  ele 

In  his 


What  it* 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


But  with  his  dagger  at  his  belt, 
Imagining  each  stroke  was  put 

Up  to  the  hilt  in  hostile  pelt. 
If  he  the  words  had  understood 

His  sigh  or  laugh  had  echoed  louder 
Than  forces  rending  rock  and  wood 

Which  dug  his  grave  with  flash  of 

powder. 
The  biggest  volume  would  not  be 

Sufficient  to  unfold  his  worth, 
His  simple  faith  and  loyalty, 

His  honor  spotless  from  his  birth, 
So  gentle  giant,  rest  thee  well ! 

We  view  thy  tomb  with  saddened  looks ; 
Thou  wert  not  skilled  to  write  or  spell, 

But  more  engaging  than  most  books. 


GORDIAN 

N  one  of  Fame's  obscur- 
er nooks 
The  Roman  emperor 

Gordian  shines, 
For  he  left  sixty  thousand 

books 

And  two  and  twenty 
concubines. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


One  so  affectionate  and  wise 

Deserved  a  k>ng  and  honored  reign, 
But  he  was  doomed,  to  our  surprise, 

In  fir^e~uteeks\to  be  foully  slain. 


Gibtion  infers,  f &>m  what  survives, 
Heyhad  a  "various  inclination," 

For  he  ctestgned  both  books  and  wives 
"  For  use  instead  of  ostentation." 


In  modern  times  kings  ne'er  collect 

A  library  except  for  show, 
And  as  to  concubines,  expect 

To  hide  what  all  their  subjects  know. 

57 


Book         THE  BOOK-WORM  DOES  NOT 
Worm  CARE  FOR  NATURE 

/"W^— *  FEEL  no  need  of  na- 
ture's flowers — 
Of  flowers  of  rhetoric  I 

have  store ; 

I  do  not  miss  the  balmy 
.  showers — 

/    \          When  books  are  dry 
I  o'er  them  pore. 

Why  should  iWt  upon  a  stile 
And  cause  my  aged  bones  to  ache, 

When  I  can  all  the  hours  beguile 
Wittf1my\styl3  that  I  would  take  ? 

> 
WhyUhould  I  h&unt  a  purling  stream, 

Or  fiskoajaiasmatic  brook  ? 
O'er  Euclid's  angles  I  can  dream, 
And  recreation  find  in  Hook. 

Why  should  I  jolt  upon  a  horse 
And  after  wretched  vermine  roam, 

58 


When  I  can  choose  an  easier  course  Book 

With  Fox  and  Hare  and  Hunt  at  home  ?    Worm 

Why  should  I  scratch  my  precious  skin 
By  crawling  through  a  hawthorne  hedge, 

When  Hawthorne,  raking  up  my  sin, 
Stands  tempting  on  the  nearest  ledge  ? 

No  need  that  I  should  take  the  trouble 

To  go  abroad  to  walk  or  ride, 
For  I  can  sit  at  home  and  double 

Quite  up  with  pain  from  Akenside. 


59 
I 


Book  ^JIOW  I  GO  A-FISHING 

^BUg^l    ^^. 

Worm    •^       ^h^^^IS  sweet  to  sit  in  shady 
Ballads       ^     9$*  nook, 

Or  wade  in  rapid  crystal 

G  brook, 

Impervious  in  rubber 

boots, 
And  wary  of  the  slippery 

roots, 

To  sAare  the  swift  evasive  trout 
Or  eke\he  sauntering  horn-pout ; 
Or  in  thevcold  Canadian  river 
To  see  theyglorious  salmon  quiver 
And  them  with  tempting  hook  inveigle, 
Fit  viand  for \  table  regal ; 
Or  after  an  exiting  bout 
To  snatch  the  pfke  with  sharpened  snout. 
Or  with  some  patient  ass  to  row 
To  troll  for  bass  with  motion  slow. 
Oh !  joy  supreme  wdien  they  appear 
Splashing  above  theWater  clear, 
And  drawn  p€luchanily  to  land 
Lie  gasping  on  tne  yellow  sand  ! 
60 


But  sweeter  far  to  read  the  books  Book 

That  treat  of  flies  and  worms  and  hooks,       Worm 

From  Pickering's  monumental  page.  Ballads 

(Late  rivaled  by  the  rare  Dean  Sage), 

And  Major's  elder  issues  neat, 

And  Burnand's  funny  •'  Incompleat." 

I  love  their  figures  quaint  and  queer, 

Which  on  the  inviting  page  appear, 

From  those  of  good  Dame  Juliana, 

Who  lifts  a  fish  and  cries  hosanna, 

To  those  of  Stothard,  graceful  Quaker, 

Of  fishy  art  supremest  maker, 

Whose  fisherman,  so  dry  and  neat, 

Would  never  soil  a  parlor  seat. 

I  love  them  all,  the  books  on  angling, 

And  far  from  cares  and  business  jangling, 

Ensconced  in  cosy  chimney  corner, 

Like  the  traditional  Jack  Horner, 

I  read  from  Walton  down  to  Lang, 

And  hum  that  song  the  Milkmaid  sang. 

I  get  not  tired  nor  wet  nor  cross, 

Nor  suffer  monetary  loss — 

If  fish  are  shy  and  will  not  bite, 

61 


Book    And  shun  the  snare  laid  in  their  sight — 
Worm    In  order  home  at  night  to  bring 
Ballads    A  fraudulent,  deceitful  string, 

And  thus  escape  the  merry  jeers 
Of  heartless  piscatory  peers; 
Nor  have  to  listen  to  the  lying 
Of  fishermen  while  fish  are  frying, 
Who  boast  of  draughts  miraculous 
Which  prove  too  large  a  draught  on  us. 
I  spare  the  rod,  and  rods  don't  break ; 
Nor  fish  in  sight  the  hook  forsake ; 
My  lines  ne'er  snap  like  corset-laces ; 
My  lines  are  fallen  in  pleasant  places ; 
And  so  in  sage  experience  ripe, 
My  fishery  is  but  a  type. 


62 


TITYRU! 

sharp  hill 
Between  two  streams 

with  Indian  names, 
Which  meet  and  fill 
he  basin  of  a  western 

Thames, 

Arose  abelfried  school- 
house  old, 
ine,  of  Doric  mold. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


frth  for  many  a  mile, 
billowy  afrain 
And  grStss-aad^treaked  poppies  smile 
Where  Uncas  lies  in  honored  rest 
Near  the  white  faces  he  loved  best. 

And  through  the  trees 
I  see  the  Yantic  shimmering  leap 

And  the  rock  heaves 
Frowning  above  the  torrent  deep, 
Where  Uncas  hurled  his  painted  foe 
Into  the  seething  pool  below. 

63 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


A  giant  elm 
O'er  hung  the  gently  sloping  roof, 

And  in  that  realm 
Of  discipline  and  stern  reproof 
For  boys  so  often  in  the  lurch, 
How  fortunate  't  was  not  a  birch  ! 

In  summer  time, 
The  studious  youth,  in  squads  of  four, 

Were  let  to  climb 
Up  to  that  roof,  and  bade  to  pore 
Over  their  Latin  and  their  Greek, 
And  not  above  their  breath  to  speak. 

And  in  that  day 
There  first  was  opened  up  to  me 

The  classic  lay 

Of  Tityrus  underneath  his  tree, 
And  half  awake  and  half  asleep 
I  watched  the  snowy  sloops  acreep. 

And  on  the  breeze 
The  din  of  lawyers  slfouting  high, 
To  earn  their  fees, 
64 


Rose  fitful  from  the  court-house  nigh,  Book 

Like  Virgil's  ploughman  on  the  beam        Worm 
Encouraging  his  panting  team.  Ballads 

And  in  the  jail 
Still  higher  up,  through  iron  bands 

One  prisoner  pale 

Stared  all  day  long  on  those  fair  lands — 
Poor  wretch !  who  ne'er  could  read  the 

tale 
Of  Tityrus  in  his  shepherd  vale. 

And  we  drove  trade 
In  knives  and  balls  and  other  toys, 

Or  planned  a  raid 
On  stores  of  barrels  other  boys 
Were  making  for  Thanksgiving  fires, 
As  for  two  centuries  did  our  sires. 

'T  is  fifty  years 
Since  there  I  lay  in  boyish  dreams, 

Yet  on  my  ears 

There  comes  the  murmur  of  those  streams, 
And  the  south  wind  blows  softly  past 
As  I  am  locked  in  slumbers  fast. 

65 


Book  Afar  I  dwell 

Worm    Upon  a  low  and  level  shore, 
Ballads  And  hear  the  swell 

Of  Erie  and  Niagara's  roar, 
And  there  Red  Jacket  dusky  stands 
In  bronze  fair-wrought  by  friendly  hands. 

Grandson  of  mine ! 
Schooled  on  a  noisy,  dusty  street, 

That  classic  line 

May  chance  some  day  your  eyes  to  meet 
But  you  can  ne'er  the  spirit  reach 
Of  Tityrus  underneath  his  beech. 

Though  youth  is  lost, 
Yet  who  shall  say  it  is  not  worth 

All  it  has  cost 

In  long  unwontedness  of  mirth, 
To  have  such  memories  and  dreams 
Of  Norwich  and  its  Indian  streams  ? 


66 


LED  from  the  haunts  of    Worm 
unforgiving  men,        Ballads 
And  hidden  in  a  rocky 

desert  cave, 
In  stress  of  agony  lies 

Magdalen 

Imploring  some  unearth- 
ly power  to  save. 

Her  fatal  bekuties  that  made  man  to  lust 

^Are  covere^  by  the  skin  of  some  wild 
beast, 
er  haggard  fsJipe  obscured  by  tears  and 

dust, 
And  dates  and  Water  for  her  only  feast. 


That  h^iTwith  wpich  she  wiped  the  Sav- 
ior's feet 
On  which  hei/tears  repentant  she  had 

sh*4^^ 
When  his  inspiring  words  her  heart  made 

beat, 

Pours  like  a  cloud  of  woe  dishevelled. 

67 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


From  morn  till  night  one  precious  book 

reads  she 
In  which  a  message  from  the  opening 

heaven 

Lights  up  her  woeful  face  with  ecstasy ; 
"  Thou  lovedst  much  and  therefore  art 
forgiven/1 

And  is  it  so,  oh  Christ  ?  if  I  love  thee 
And  hate  my  sins,  wilt  thou  forgive  them 
all? 

The  love  of  mortal  creature  seems  to  be 
For  love  immortal  a  return  too  small. 


68 


THE  GUIDE  BOOK 

URRAY  and  Baedeker 
share  equal  fame 
As  guide  books  over  this 

terrestrial  ball ; 
But  if  you  'd  know  the 
worst  one  of  this 
name, 

Tupper's  Philosophy's 
worst  guyed  book  of  all. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


H 


•T- 


HE  sang  aloft  in  the  vil 

lage  choir, 
And  down  in  the  pew » 

saw  him 
Staring  at  her  with  such 

loving  fire 
That  she  trembled  in 

every  limb. 

stared  so  long  and  he  stared  so  hard, 
e  tried  to  think  of  the  sacred  bard, 
she  found  it  difficult  to  look — 
ather  more  than  she  could  do — 
once  at  the  holy  hymn  in  the  book 
d  also  at  him  in  the  pew. 


X>AT«BOOK  Book 

TRANGE  that  a  volume    Worm 
all  made  up  of  truth    Ballads 
Should  be  promotive  of  ^ 

so  many  lies ! 
So  men,  with  Judas  kiss- 

es,  void  of  ruth, 

Betray  by  their  com- 
mercial perjuries 
thumbed  and  greasy  court-house 

testament, 
t  long  has  sanction  to  the  devil  lent. 


Worn! 
Ballad 


OUT  OF  DOORS 

HEN  one  was  but  a 
dreaming  boy 
He  loved  "  to  snatch  a 

fearful  joy," 
And  shirk  the  close  and 
humdrum  school, 
And  loiter  by  some  shad 

ed  pool 

here  water  lilies  faintly  lent, 
To  tree  and  mossy  bank  their  scent. 
And  having  feasted  full  of  cherries, 
On  apples  hard  or  acid  berries, 
b  lie  upon  his  tense  abdomen, 
(To  counteract  uneasy  omen,) 
And  read  forbidden  books  by  hours, 
tfninterrupted  by  the  showers — 
f  Crusoe  and  his  desert  island, 

Wallace,  chieftain  of  the  highland, 
Or  that  renowned  Swiss  Family 
Who  lived  in  cave  or  up  a  tree — 
And  nothing  palled  and  nothing  ailed 
Until  his  food  and  daylight  failed, 
72 


And  he  went  home  to  milk  the  cow, 

And  tell  his  anxious  parents  how 

The  master  kept  him  after  school 

For  violation  of  some  rule, 

Unfearing  Ananias1  fate, 

Nor  emulous  of  the  estimate 

Of  Georgie  and  his  little  hatchet, 

But  only  dreading  lest  he  "  catch  it." 

Such  joys  are  for  the  age  of  ten — 

One  is  a  happy  being  then. 

But  when  one  comes  to  six  times  ten, 

And  lays  aside  his  weary  pen 

And  seeks  a  tree  by  pool  or  brook, 

And  painfully  his  limbs  will  crook 

In  search  of  easy  attitude, 

And  cons  a  book  to  suit  his  mood — 

O'er  Herbert  Spencer,  Ibsen,  Browning, 

Or  Meredith  or  Eliot  frowning — 

He  yawns,  and  yet  he  cannot  sleep, 

But  hand  in  motion  he  must  keep 

To  ward  off  flies  and  sharp  mosquitoes 

While  reading  one  of  Cleveland's  vetoes ; 

The  slippery  moss  is  deadly  damp 

73 


Book    And  threatens  a  rheumatic  cramp ; 
Worm    The  sun  persistent  chases  him 
Ballads    *n  course  °f  time  from  limb  to  limb, 
Because  he  's  lost  the  boyish  knack 
Of  turning  up  his  aged  back  ; 
Whichever  way  he  face,  the  wind 
The  bald  spot  on  his  crown  will  find ; 
And  worms  and  bugs  and  busy  ants 
Make  merry  on  his  whole  expanse, 
Like  those  small  folk,  in  best  of  fables, 
Who  on  the  traveller  turned  the  tables. 
Maddened  at  length  he  stiffly  rises, 
Nor  waits  till  evening  him  surprises, 
And  painfully  he  hobbles  home, 
And  vows  he  ne'er  again  will  roam 
From  curtains,  rugs  and  cushioned  chair, 
And  tempt  the  inclement  summer  air 
In  the  romantic  expectation 
Of  out-door  reading  in  vacation  ; 
For  't  is  a  weary,  useless  pain 
To  try  to  be  a  boy  again. 


74 


READING  MENANDER'S  SONGS 


pic- 

ture!" cry  aloud 
The  gallery  visitors  ; 

two  girls  of  Greece, 
Their  heads  quite  close, 
white  gowned  and 
classic  browed, 
"  Reading  Menander's 
of  Golden  Fleece, 

Cupid.  That  old  poet, 
Christians  read,  unto 


allusion/bn  Mars  Hill  will  owe  it. 
'ere  wicked  to  read  him  at  all. 
And  so  those  read  of  heroes  &  of  lovers,  — 
But,  Artist,  you  have  made  an  error  droll  ; 
They  should  not  read  a  modern  book  with 

covers, 
But  rather  from  an  ancient  parchment  roll. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


75 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


THE  MODERN  READER 

ON  QUIXOTE  read  ro- 
mances till  his  wits, 
By  nature  weak,  be- 
came extremely 
hazy; 
The  modern  reader  quite 

collected  sits, 
It  is  the  writer  only 
wrx>  is  crazy. 


MAKETH  A  FULL  MAN"     Book 
"     HY  should  reading  make    Worm 

a  man-  full"  ? 
Unless  by  possible 

chance 
He  managed  to  addle  his 

skull 

By  "  intoxicating  ro- 
mance." 


77 


Ballads 


THE  HOLY  MAN 

Y  AN  open  window,  in 

easy  chair, 

Where  the  sun  and  the 
breeze  stream  thro', 
Sits  a  monk,  ignoring  the 

prospect  fair, 
He  sits  with  his  back  to 
the  view. 

His  eyes  are  engaged  in  a  volume  quaint 
Of  vellum,  witp  clasps,  whose  creamy 
pages 

Are  gay  with  the  hues  of  various  paint — 
Monk  middle-aged  in  the  middle  ages. 

Unheeding  the  buzzing  of  busy  bees 
And  the  scent  of  the  climbing  vine, 

The  lowing  of  herds  on  the  windy  leas, 
And  rustle  of  poplar  and  pine. 

A  smile  benignant  illumines  his  cheek 
And  tenderly  shines  in  his  eyes, 

And  deep  satisfaction,  well  fed  and  sleek, 
The  place  of  contrition  supplies. 

78 


Doth  he  read  in  a  book  of  piety  ?  Book 

A  Kempis,  Jerome  or  Dominic —  Worm 

Or  possibly  one  of  diet,  he  ?  Ballads 
Or  receipts  for  healing  the  holy  sick  ? 

Peep  over  his  shoulders  big  and  burly 
And  observe  what  his  saintly  eyes  rest 
on: 

Oh,  fie !  at  this  hour  so  calm  and  early 
Perusing  the  naughty  Decameron ! 

He  relishes  every  satiric  joke 

Slyly  aimed  at  the  priestly  frock, 
And  sympathy  feels  with  the  erring  folk 

Of  whom  the  romancer  makes  mock. 

He  likes  this  much  better,  this  book  of  tales, 
Than  the  writings  of  saints  or  of  sages ; 

To  keep  him  from  nodding  it  never  fails — 
This  middle-aged  monk  of  the  middle 
ages. 

After  all,  't  was  not  a  terrible  crime — 

No  worse,  I  would  venture  to  say, 
Than  to  catch  a  clergyman  of  our  time 

With  Hardy,  Dumas  or  Daudet. 

79 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


THE  DECAMERON  AND  THE 
HEPTAMERON 

HE  ten  gay  Italians  have 

fled  from  the  pest, 
To  chat  in  a  garden 

serene ; 

Audacity  lends  to  enjoy- 
ment a  zest 
And  shuts  death  and 
care  from  the  scene. 


Queen  ^[argaret  sits  in  a  bower  with  her 

maids, 

And  tellV them  her  tales  by  the  hour ; 
But  story  and  landscape  and  bit ds  in  the 

glades 

To  unwrinkte  their  brows  have  no 
power. 


The  tales  are  not  Jpng,  but  then  they  are 

broad, 

For  this  era-ajrifte  too  "  tart " 
80 


But  why  did  the  latter  elicit  no  laud,  g     . 

While  the  former  delighted  the  heart  ?       vVorm 

Ballads 
The  reason  is  simple  and  clear  as  the  light 

To  the  thickest  inquisitive  skull — 
Boccaccio  though  bad  is  unfailingly  bright,         * 
Queen  Margaret  sleepily  dull. 

At  all  stupid  people  this  moral  I  level, 

With  vital  significance  big : — 
Far  better  ten  days  in  the  courts  of  the  devil 

Then  seven  in  the  courts  of  a  prig. 


81 


Book  JANE  GRAY 

Worm  — — frftady  Jane,  the  sun  is 

Ballads  «4  high, 

The  hawk  is  mounting 
the  glowing  sky, 
The  horses  are  champing 

impatiently, 

And  the  hounds  are  bay- 
ing noisily, 

courtiers  are  trooping  by — 
sport  to-day ! 

has  hawk  or  hound, 
tsses  me; 
My  spfrit^aapsr^eyond  earth's  bound, 

And  Immortality 

In  Plato's  page  can  banish  sorrow 
That  threatens  every  worldly  morrow. 
Sweet  friends,  enjoy  to-day, 
But  leave  me  while  I  may 
Some  solace  for  life's  trouble  borrow." 

What  would  a  bibliomaniac  pay 

For  the  Plato  read  by  sweet  Jane  Gray  ? 
82 


/ 


J 


HAMLET'S  BOOK 

HAT  book  was  that 

Prince  Hamlet  read 
When  "words,  words, 

words! "  he  cried, 
And  vehemently  shied 
The  volume  at  the  inquir- 
ing courtier's  head? 

cl  Hamlet  lived  in  this  our  day 

Of  book-producing  fame, 

By  almost  any  name 
He  might  have  called  the  thing  he  flung 
\  away. 


Of  medicine,  law,  theology, 
.         There  is  a  growing  heap 
j      Of  words  impelling  sleep 
•^  jDr  rage,  for  which  there 's  no  apology. 

The  writers  suck  our  blood  like  leeches 

If  we  submit  to  bleed ; 

But  then  there  is  no  need 
To  read  the  whole  of  Mr.  Evarts'  speeches, 

83 


Book     Nor  those  of  Chauncy  M.  Depew, 
Worm        in  which  a  candid  mind 
Ballads        Regrets  that  it  can  find 

No  fun  in  jokes  which  are  so  seldom  new. 

The  same  old  weary  grist  is  ground, 
And  covers  up  the  field 
Which  nothing  more  can  yield 

Unless  by  chance  an  acre  bare  is  found. 

The  lexicon-compiler,  too, 

Makes  it  a  special  boast 

That  he  unearths  a  host 
Of  words  unknown,  to  make  old  things 
sound  new. 

Let  that  benevolent  man  be  blessed 

Whose  meaning  in  a  word 

Or  two  may  be  inferred, 
Like  Solomon's  sweet  wisdom  well  com- 
pressed. 

Oh,  bless  the  godly  minister 
Who  finds  but  half  an  hour 


Sufficient  for  the  power 
To  warn  his  flock  of  influence  sinister. 

And  pardon  wily  Aaron  Burr 
For  duel  and  for  treason, 
Because  no  court  had  reason 

To  his  short  pithy  speeches  to  demur. 

Was  Hamlet  mad,  or  did  he  feign  ? 

Here  scholars  disagree, 

But  it  appears  to  me 
There  was  organic  trouble  in  his  brain. 

His  nature  sensitive  and  sad — 

The  poet  clearly  meant 

To  make  it  evident 
That  "words,  words,  words "  had  driven 
poor  Hamlet  mad. 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


E  PROSY  SIDE  OF  LIFE 

WO  heads  incline  to- 
gether 

Like  neighboring  can- 
dle flames ; 
One  can't  determine 

whether 

They  grow  on  separate 
frames. 


The  li^ht  of  love  is  playing 
Upon  their  faces  fond ; 

Young  Love  awhile  is  staying, 
Until  he  welds  his  bond. 


They  are  not  Raul  and  Frances, 

Of  sad  Italian,  fame, 
Although  one  boak  their  glances 

Devour  devoid  W  shame. 


In  hell  they, 
Before  t 
86 


floating 
twain, 


But  o'er  the  pages  gloating  Book 

Unmoving  they  remain.  Worm 

Ballads 

Is 't  Howells'  "  Wedding  Journey/1 

Or  John  the  Second's  book, 
Or  tale  of  knights  and  tourney 

That  wins  their  steadfast  look  ? 

The  book  that  these  young  spouses 

Enchains  so  close  and  still, 
Is  "  Furnishing  of  Houses 

For  just  what  price  you  will." 

No  need  to  con  romances — 

They  find  their  fiction  here, 
And  if  they  test  the  chances 

They  buy  their  reading  dear. 

Munchausen  and  Sapphira 

Such  lies  did  not  invent ; 
Dumas  does  not  require  a 

Reliance  so  content. 


p.     ,     Though  each  for  each  these  lovers 
w  Their  life  would  gladly  give, 

A  foul  suspicion  hovers, 
It  costs  still  more  to  live. 


88 


THE  TWQ^BeeKSx  Book 

F  OLD  in  Edinborough       Worm 
town,  Ballads 

The  houses  opposite  in 
Dickson's  Close, 
With  timbered  gables 

frowning  down, 
Approached  each  other 

nearer  as  they  rose, 
k  without  a  spasm 
touch  across  the  dizzy  chasm. 

O   ) 

Avgrandam  helcl  an  open  book 
Out  olSU^Lwil^ow,  half  across  the  way, 

That  grandsire  opposite  might  look 
Through  glasses  that  supplied  the  exclud- 
ed day ; 

And  so  he  sat  and  scanned  the  pages — 

A  pretty  picture  at  their  ages. 

They  disappeared,  and  quick  a  boy 
Leaned  from  grandma's  window  and  was 
met 

89 


Book         ^7  a  young  girl ;  to  them,  't  was  joy 
Worm     To  kiss  and  clasp — the  example  recent  set 
Ballads         ^V  °^  ^°^  *n  eac^  neighboring  gable 
To  lend  a  hint  to  youth  was  able. 

The  book  the  elder  ones  perused, 
One  could  not  read  its  name  so  far  below ; 

But  that  the  other  pair  amused 
Its  title  plainly  on  the  street  did  show ; 

'T  was  writ  in  Latin,  full  of  stories 

Pleasing  to  youth,  called  "  Ars  Amoris," 


Ballads 


&-~Q&~PAttJfr-^Qk 

MINADAB,  my  precious 

son, 
Tell  me,  what  book  is 

that?" 
"  Mother,  the  '  Life  of 

Whittington 
And  his  amusing  Cat.'  " 


[y  son,  *  tis  an  ungodly  book, 

cat's  tale  is  not  true  ; 
>n  such  pictures  do  not  look, 
Though  gaudy  to  the  view. 

Lord  Mayor's  shows  are  vanities 
And  baits  to  catch  the  soul  ; 
Gold-getting  cats  are  Satan's  lies 
To  turn  you  from  the  goal. 

"  Go  read  of  Christian  and  the  Lion, 
And  of  the  dreadful  Giant  ; 

That  is  a  book  to  live  and  die  on, 
Of  Satan's  wiles  defiant. 


91 


Book    "  Because  you  ' ve  done  this  naughty  thing, 
Worm        To  read  upon  the  sly, 
Ballads    To-day  no  turkey  but  the  wing, 
Nor  any  pumpkin-pie. 

"  I  '11  burn  this  book  as  they  of  old 
Burned  theirs,  of  all  men  seen, 

Converted  by  St.  Paul  the  bold — 
See  Acts  nineteen,  nineteen." 

And  so  she  threw,  with  aspect  sinister, 
That  chap-book  on  the  coals, 

Whose  present  price  would  ship  a  minister 
For  saving  heathen  souls. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON'S  PENANCE        Book 

A  Ballad  for  Bafl  Boys Worm 

CENTURY  &  a  half  ago,    Ballads 


When  times  were  primi- 
tive and  slow, 
In  Uttoxeter,  on  market 

days, 

1    (Called  Uxeter,  in  English 
\>    <•»*»        phrase), 

At  junction  of  the  country 

ways, 

A  book-seller,  who  failed  in  trade, 
A  small,  precarious  living  made 
By  setting  up  a  petty  stall 
For  sale  of  books  at  profit  small. 
Michael  Johnson  was  a  name 
Plebeian  and  unknown  to  Fame, 
But  he  was  father  of  one  Sam, 
Who  came  in  time  to  be  the  Cham 
Of  men  of  letters  over  sea ; 
But  surly,  vain ;  pragmatic  he, 
Purblind  and  twitching  nervously, 
Clumsy  in  frame,  ugly  of  face, 

93 


Book    And  proud  above  his  humble  race 
Worm    He  was  the  tyrant  of  his  school, 
Ballads    So  absolute  his  petty  rule 

That  he  to  school  was  daily  borne 
In  pomp  like  that  by  satraps  worn, 
Upon  one  classmate's  stalwart  back, 
While  two  on  either  hand  the  pack 
Of  pride  and  obstinacy  propped 
As  in  the  dust  they  humbly  hopped. 
Although  his  shoes  were  out  at  toes, 
And  patched  his  coat  and  darned  his  hose, 
As  much  above  well-meant  advice 
As  a  white  bear  on  polar  ice. 
So  when  his  father,  quite  worn  down 
By  age  and  sickness,  asked  the  clown 
To  tend  the  book-stall  in  his  stead, 
He  waxed  with  anger  hot  and  red, 
With  all  the  pride  of  sour  sixteen 
He  would  not  let  himself  be  seen 
To  deal  out  humble  books  and  ballads 
To  country  louts  mixed  up  with  salads, 
Bringing  their  cows  and  squeaking  swine 
And  thinking  mainly  how  to  dine, 
94 


Clowns  only  fit  to  drive  an  ox,  Book 

And  country  squires  to  chase  a  fox.  Worm 

So  he  refused  that  cry  for  help —  Ballads 

A  most  unnatural  willful  whelp,         , 
Unlike  the  son  in  the  Testament, 
Who  said  he  would  not  go,  but  went ; 
Too  big  and  strong  a  cub  to  lick, 
And  Michael  could  not  wield  a  stick. 

Fifty  years  had  passed  away, 

Again  't  was  Uttoxeter's  market  day. 

In  the  noisy  stony  square, 

Head  bent  down  and  gray  and  bare, 

Ursa  Major,  blinking,  tall, 

Stood  where  once  had  stood  the  stall, 

Stood  at  noon  and  muttered  prayer 

Of  penitence  and  penance  there, 

Heedless  of  the  gaping  crowd 

Who  grinned  and  commented  aloud, 

Heedless  of  the  pelting  rain 

That  fell  upon  his  head  amain  ; 

So  was  penance  meekly  done 

By  the  disobedient  son, 

95 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


Few  there  knew  the  penitent, 
None  the  sin  he  did  repent. 

Such  was  Samuel's  superstition, 

Such  his  physical  condition, 

Who  when  he  walked  must  touch  each 

post 
And  credited  the  Cock  Lane  ghost. 

Had  this  happened  in  our  day, 
Skeptic  folk  would  surely  say 
He  was  either  drunk  or  mad, 
Or  it  was  a  clever  "  ad  "  ; 
And  most  likely  right  would  be, 
So  strange  such  filial  piety. 


AT  SHAKESPEARE'S  GRAVE 
(Ignatius  Donnelly  Loq.) 

ISMISS  your  apprehen- 
sion, pseudo  bard, 
For  no  one  wishes  to 

disturb  these  stones, 
Nor  cares  if  here  or  in 

the  outer  yard 
They  stow  your  impu- 
dent, deceitful 
bones. 

Your  foolish-colored  bust  upon  the  wall, 
With  its  preposterous  expanse  of  brow, 

Shall /rival  Humpty  Dumpty's  famous  fall, 
And  cheat  no  cultured  Boston  people 
I  now. 

Steal  deer,  hold  horses,  act  your  third- 
rate  parts, 
Hoard  money,  booze,  neglect  Anne 

Hathaway, — 

You  can't  deceive  us  with  your  stolen  arts ; 

97 


Book       Like  many  a  worthier  dog,  you  've  had 
Worm  your  day. 

Ballads 

I  have  expressed  your  history  in  a  cypher, 

I  've  done  your  sum  for  all  ensuing  time, 
I  don't  know  what  you  longer  wish  to  lie 
for 

Beneath  these  stones  or  in  your  dogger- 
el rhyme. 

Get  up  and  dust,  or  plunge  into  the  river, 
Or  walk  the  chancel  with  a  ghostly 

squeak, 

You  were  an  ignorant  and  evil  liver, 
Who  could  not  spell,  nor  write,  nor  read 
much  Greek. 

Though  you  enslaved  the  ages  by  your 

spell, 
And  Fame  has  blown  no  reputation 

louder, 

Your  cake  is  dough,  for  I  by  sifting  well 
Have  quite  reduced  your  dust  to  Bacon- 
powder. 


Y  FAVORITE  BOOK 


Book 

HAT  is  my  favorite  book  ?   Worm 
you  ask—  Ballad? 

A  question  that  would 

puzzle  most ; 
For  me  it  is  an  easy  task 
To  point  it  out  among 
my  host. 


This  book  is  but  a  single  tome, 
But  of  a  size  that 's  quite  unique  ; 
other  countries  or  at  home 
Its  match  't  would  be  in  vain  to  seek. 

tils  book  is  not  so  very  old, 

e  print  is  brilliant  on  the  page, 
u1j|  it  would  need  a  questioner  bold 
o  try  to  ascertain  its  age. 

This  book,  although  in  muslin  bound, 
Apparently  at  outlay  slight, 

Requires  before  the  year  comes  round 
Fresh  covers  to  preserve  it  bright. 

99 


Book    It  has  some  clasps  both  strong  and  rare, 
Worm        To  take  them  off  would  hurt  the  book, 
Ballads    But  I  admit,  to  be  quite  fair, 

Their  absence  would  not  spoil  its  look, 

I  've  owned  this  book  for  many  a  year, 
But  never  yet  could  read  it  through, 

For  when  I  think  the  end  is  near, 
There  rise  fresh  pages  still  to  view. 

Though  all  my  other  books  I  sell, 
To  this  I  will  forever  cling ; 

None  other  so  much  lore  can  tell, 
No  other  so  much  pleasure  bring. 

Now  after  all  these  candid  hints 
You  ought  my  favorite  to  guess  ; 

Enhanced  by  most  attractive  prints, 
It  is  my  wife,  my  much  conned  Bess. 


loo 


H,  gentle  thief! 
I  marked  the  absent- 
minded  air 
With  which  you  tucked 

]away  my  rare 
Book  in  your  pocket. 


'T  was  past  belief — 
I  saw  you  near  the  open  case, 
But  yours  was  such  an  honest  face 

I  did  not  lock  it. 

1 

I  knew  you  lacked 
That  one  to  make  your  set  complete, 
And  when  that  book  you  chanced  to  meet 

You  recognized  it. 


Wonm 
Ballads 


And  when  attacked 
By  rage  of  bibliophilic  greed, 
You  prigged  that  small  Quantin  Ovide, 

Although  I  prized  it. 


101 


Book  !  will  not  sue, 

Worm     Nor  bring  your  family  to  shame 
Ballads     By  giving  up  your  honored  name 
To  heartless  prattle. 

I  '11  visit  you, 

And  under  your  unwary  eyes 
Secrete  and  carry  off  the  prize, 

My  ravished  chattel. 


102 


THE  TRAMP,  HIS  DOG,  AND  Book 

THEIR  BOOK  Worm 

ATE  I  saw  a  vagabond,       Ballads 
Lolling  on  a  seat 

In  the  park ; 
Reading  he  with  vision 

fond 

In  a  volume  neat 
Until  dark. 


Dog  was  squatting  at 
To  his  master  dear 

Nestled  cl< 
Not  a  quiver 
Save  when 
Twitching) 

^- —  — — ' 
As  his  master  turned  a  leaf 

He  from  page  to  page 

Gave  it  heed ; 

Surely  't  was  beyond  belief 
At  his  tender  age 
Dog  could  read ! 

103 


Book    Master  hungry,  poor  and  thin, 
Worm       D°£  was  Just  the  same> 
Ballads  ^nc*  **  seemed 

Bones  were  almost  through  their  skin ; 
Sore  they  were  and  lame 
While  they  dreamed. 

For  an  hour  I  watched  them  there, 
Partly  hid  from  view 

By  a  copse ; 

Crackers  were  their  only  fare, 
Doggie  with  ado 
Licked  his  chops. 

"  What  d'  ye  call  your  dog,  my  friend  ? 
Questioned,  he  replied : 

"  Argos,  sir ; 

If  our  fortunes  ever  mend, 
Better  I  '11  provide 
For  the  cur." 

And  the  book  he  so  much  prized 
Smilingly  he  showed 
104 


To  me  quick  ;  Book 

I  was  almost  paralyzed —  Worm 

Horace !  at  the  ode  Ballads 
"Lydia,  die! " 

Tramp  and  dog  that  night  slept  soft, 
And  I  gave  the  pair 

Solaces — 

Victual  and  a  cleanly  loft — 
(And  displayed  my  rare 
Horaces.) 

L,'  ENVOI 

Now  the  rarest  of  the  lot 
Is  erased  from  my 

Catalogue ; 

Tramp,  I  think,  purloined  it  not, 
But 't  was  pilfered  by 
That  'ere  dog. 


105 


NING  THE  LIBRARY 

ITH  traitorous  kiss  re- 
marked my  spouse, 
"  Remain  down  town  to 

lunch  to-day, 
For  we  are  busy  cleaning 

house, 

And  you  would  be  in 
Minnie's  way." 

hen  I  came  home  that  fateful  night, 

found  within  my  sacred  room 
Trie  wretched  maid  had  wreaked  her  spite 
ith  mop  and  pail  and  witch's  broom. 

books  were  there,  but  oh  how  changed ! 
ey  startled  me  with  rare  surprises, 
they  had  all  been  re-arranged, 
And  less  by  subjects  than  by  sizes. 


Some  volumes  numbered  right  to  left, 
And  some  were  standing  on  their  heads, 
106 


And  some  were  of  their  mates  bereft, 
And  some  behind  for  refuge  fled. 

The  women  brave  attempts  had  made 
At  placing  cognate  books  together ; — 

They  looked  like  strangers  close  arrayed 
Under  a  porch  in  stormy  weather. 

She  watched  my  face — that  spouse  of 
mine — 

Some  approbation  there  to  glean, 
But  seeing  I  did  not  incline 

To  praise,  remarked,  "  I  've  got  it  clean." 

And  so  she  had — and  also  wrong ; 

She  little  knew — she  was  but  thirty — 
I  entertained  a  preference  strong 

To  have  it  right,  though  ne'er  so  dirty. 

That  wife  of  mine  has  much  good  sense, 
To  chide  her  would  have  been  inhuman, 

And  it  would  be  a  great  expense 

To  graft  the  book-sense  on  a  woman. 

107 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


A  LITERARY  JETTISON. 

*^-** • 

mouth  of  Santiago 

bay, 
Through  hot  &  weary 

weeks, 
The  good  ship  "  Texas  " 

watching  lay 
For  the  crafty  Spanish 

sneaks. 


For  chase  and  fight  the  ship  made  light 

Her  decks ;  her  library, 
That  cheered  her  crew  by  day  and  night, 

She  threw  into  the  sea. 

Thus  she  without  too  much  ado 

To  meet  the  foe  was  able, 
And  swiftly  o'er  the  water  flew 

Because  she  slipped  her  Cable. 


The  volumes  once  considered  dry 
Are  now  become  quite  wet, 
1 08 


And  none  are  drawn  excepting  by  Book 

A  hook  and  line  or  net.  Worm 

Ballads 
Omar  his  books  by  fire   destroyed, 

And  since  these  had  to  vanish, 
Why  were  they  not  as  shot  employed 
'Gainst  the  unlettered  Spanish  ? 

Books  can  no  entertainment  lend 

To  fish,  nor  tale  can  tell, 
And  't  is  superfluous  to  send 

Roe  to  the  mackerel. 

To  pitch  A.  Pope  into  the  ocean 

Would  surely  seem  to  be 
A  very  ill  considered  notion — 

'T  was  not  a  Papal  see. 

One  finds  as  o'er  the  world  he  looks, 

The  potent  men  are  they 
Who  have  thrown  overboard  their  books 

And  give  their  brains  fair  play. 


109 


_.  ODE  TO  CALIPH  OMAR 

*        |< ^ 

Worm  TffilAR,  who  burned  (if 

Ballads  *\  thou  didst  burn) 

The  Alexandrian  tomes, 
I  would  erect  to  thee  an 

urn 

Beneath  Sophia's 
domes. 


exemplary  torch 
blaze  again, 
anuYactories  scorch 
men ! 



So  many  Dooks  I  can't  endure, — 
The  dull  and  commonplace, 

The  dirty,  trifling,  and  obscure, 
The  realistic  race. 

The  poets  who  write  "dialect," 
Maudlin  and  coarse  by  turns, 

Most  ardently  do  I  expect 
Thou  'It  wither  up  with  Burns. 
no 


All  the  erotic,  yawping  class 

Condemn  with  judgment  stern —  Worm 

Walt  Whitman's  rotten  "Leaves  of  Grass"    Ballads 

And  elegant  Swinburne. 

Of  commentators  make  a  point, 

The  carping,  blind,  and  dry ; 
Rend  the  "  Baconians  "  joint  by  joint, 

And  throw  them  on  to  fry. 

Especially  I  'd  have  thee  choke 

Law-libraries  in  sheep, 
With  fire  derived  from  ancient  Coke, 

And  sink  in  ashes  deep. 

Destroy  the  sheep — don't  save  my  own — 

I  weary  of  the  cram, 
The  misplaced  diligence  I  've  shown — 

But  kindly  spare  my  Lamb, 

Fear  not  to  sprinkle  on  the  pyre, 

The  woes  of  "  Esther  Waters ;  " 
They  '11  only  make  the  flames  burn  higher, 

And  warn  Eve's  other  daughters. 

in 


Book    Beware  of  Howells  and  of  James, 
Worm        Of  Trollope  and  his  rout ; 
Ballads    The  first  would  dampen  down  your  flames, 
The  others  put  them  out ! 

The  man  who  writes  but  hundred  pages 
Where  thousands  went  before, 

Deserves  the  thanks  of  weary  sages, 
And  Omar  should  adore. 


112 


BOOKS  -Book 


RIENDS  of  my  youth        Worm 
and  of  my  age          Ballads 
Within  my  chambers 

wait 
Until  I  fondly  turn  the 

page, 

And  prove  them  wise 
and  great. 


At  me  they  &o  not  rudely  glare 
With  eye  mat  lustre  lacks, 

But  knowing  how  I  hate  a  stare 
Politely  turmtheir  backs. 


They  never  splilj  my  head  with  din, 

N/irsnuffle  through  their  noses, 
Nor  admiration/seek  to  win 


inartisue  poses. 

If  I  should  chance  to  fall  asleep 
They  do  not  scowl  nor  snap, 


Book    But  prudently  their  counsel  keep 
Worm       Till  I  have  had  my  nap. 
Ballads 

And  if  I  choose  to  rout  them  out 

Unseasonably  at  night, 
They  do  not  chafe  nor  curse  nor  pout, 

But  rise  all  clothed  and  bright. 

They  ne'er  intrude  with  silly  say, 
They  never  scold  nor  worry  ; 

They  ne'er  suspect  and  ne'er  betray, 
They  're  never  in  a  hurry. 

\ 
Anacreon  never  gets  quite  full, 

Nor  Horace  too  flirtatious, 
And  Swift  makes  fun  of  Johnny  Bull, 

And  Addison  is  gracious. 

Saint-Simon  and  Grammont  rehearse 
Their  tales  of  court  with  glee ; 

For  all  their  scandal  I  'm  no  worse — 
They  never  peach  on  me. 
114 


For  what  I  owe  Montaigne,  no  dread  Book 

To  meet  him  on  the  morrow ;  Worm 

And  better  still,  it  must  be  said  Ballads 
He  never  wants  to  borrow. 

Paul  never  asks,  though  sure  to  preach, 

Why  I  don't  come  to  church ; 
Though  Doctor  Johnson  strives  to  teach, 

I  do  not  fear  his  birch. 

My  Dickens  never  is  away 

Whene'er  I  choose  to  call ; 
I  need  not  wait  for  Thackeray 

In  chill  palatial  hall. 

I  help  to  bring  Amelia  to, 

Who  always  is  a-fainting ; 
I  love  the  Oxford  graduate  who 

Explains  great  Turner's  painting. 

My  memory  is  full  of  graves 

Of  friends  in  days  gone  by, 
But  Time  these  sweet  companions  saves — 

These  friends  who  never  die  ! 


Book 

Worm 

Ballade 


THE  FIRE  IN  THE  LIBRARY 
T  WAS  just  before  mid- 
night a  smart  con- 
flagration 

Broke  out  in  my  dwell- 
ing and  threatened 
my  books; 

\       Confounded  and  dazed 
with  a  great  con- 
sternation 
I  gazed  at  mV  treasures  with  pitiful  looks. 

"  Oh  !  which  sMall  I  rescue  ?  "  I  cried  in 

^ee^feelilag ; 
I  Wished  I  weiie  armed  like  Briareus  of 

(yore,7 
WhilVsharper^dnd  sharper  the  flames 

kepFfevealing 
The  sight  of  my  bibliographical  store. 

"  My  Lamb  may  remain  to  be  thoroughly 

roasted, 

My  Crabbe  to  be  broiled  and  my  Bacon 
to  fry, 

iii 


My    Browning  accustomed  to  being  well 

toasted,  Worm 

And  Waterman  Taylor  rejoicing  to  dry."      Ballads 

At  hazard  I  grasped   at  the  rest  of  my 

treasure, 
And  crammed  all  pockets  with  dainty 

eighteens ; 
I  packed  up  a  pillow  case,  heaping  good 

measure, 

And  turned  me  away  from  the  saddest  of 
scenes. 

But  slowly  departing,   my   face  growing 

sadder, 

At  leaving  old  favorites  behind  me  so  far, 
A  feminine  voice  from  the  foot  of  the  lad- 
der 

Cried,  "  Bring  down  my  Cook-Book  and 
Harper's  Bazar!  " 


117 


Book 

Worm 

Ballads 


COMPANIONS  IN  DEATH 

HE  star-eyed  poet  of  the 

Briton's  land, 
Companioned  by  the  old 

dramatic  Greek, 
'Whelmed  in  the  south- 
ern waves  he  loved 
to  seek 

Was    burned    with    him 
upon  the  Italian  strand ; — 
An  elemental  ending  wild  and  grand ; 
And  Later,  with  expiring  fingers  weak 
The  tale\pf  Imogen,  the  chaste  and  meek, 
Was  tracecl  by  him  who  sang  the  Idyls 

bland.  \ 
Such  books  turri  sudden  death  to  benison  ; 

And  if  I  solitary  fall  asleep, 
May  my  expiring  vision  rest  upon 
The  wisdom  oA  the  Preacher  calm  and 

deep, 
Or  fervor  of  St.  Paul  or  sweet  St.  John ; 

of  friends  who  can 


THE  DOLL  BROUGHT  UP  ON 

GREEK 

HP* 

child,  but 
eight  years  old, 
Who  ne'er  had  done  her 

father  harm, 
A  book  in  one  small  hand 

did  hold, 

A  dolly   on   her   other 
arm. 

The  book  was  Homer  in  the  Greek, 
And  till  she  learned  her  stated  task, 

To  dolly  she  was  not  to  speak 
Nor  for  the  smallest  favor  ask. 

That  dolly  was  the  confidante 

Of  most  unusual  complaints ; 
The  sufferings  of  childhood  can't 

Be  less  than  those  of  grown-up  saints. 

The  child's  poor  frame  grew  very  slow, 
And  not  much  bigger  than  her  dolly 

119 


Book 


Book     She  was  for  years  in  bed  laid  low, 
Worm         The  victim  of  paternal  folly. 
Ballads 

But  Robert  came  along  one  day, 

With  love  her  patient  learning  crowning. 
Cried  "  Maiden,  rise  and  come  away  !  •' 
And  Lizzie  Barrett  turned  to  Browning, 

That  father  was  extremely  wroth — 
The  doll  was  not  half  full  of  Greek— 

But  when  true  lovers  plight  their  troth 
Mere  fathers  have  a  hole  to  seek. 

Love  's  the  beginning  and  the  end, 

The  alpha  and  omega  too, 
But  this  is  all  that  Greek  can  lend 

To  aid  a  life  begun  anew. 


120 


DIED,  Feb.  6,  1899,  IRVING  BROWNE,  aged  58  years. 

3RVING  BROWNE  was  not  a  great  man  as  the 
world  counts  such.  He  was  too  generous  to  ever 
become  rich,  and  he  did  not  grow  famous  at  the 
practice  of  law,  simply  because  he  had  a  bad  habit 
of  considering  the  position  of  the  other  fellow.  Irv- 
ing Browne  was  an  excellent  lawyer,  but  a  poor  prac- 
titioner. "You  cannot  have  both  the  law  and  the 
profits,"  he  once  said.  And  yet  Irving  Browne  al- 
ways had  all  he  needed,  and  perhaps  that  is  enough. 
^  Irving  Browne  possessed  the  heart  of  a  true  Col- 
lector— tender,  sympathetic,  kind.  He  made  no  pre- 
tense of  loving  his  enemies — he  had  none. 
Physically,  Irving  Browne  was  frail  and  slight ;  his 
manner  mild  and  gentle;  but  in  his  breast  there 
dwelt  a  lion's  heart :  not  even  Death  could  fright 
him.  He  went  down  into  the  shadow  without  a  trem- 
or, &  when  too  weak  to  speak  aloud,  feebly  pressed 
my  hand  and  whispered  Mercutio's  pun,  "It  's  a 
grave  subject !  "  and  smiled  with  the  mist  of  death 
in  his  eyes.  Conscious,  sane,  grateful — he  was,  to  the 
very  moment  when  his  spirit  took  its  flight. 
He  was  the  incarnation  of  Charles  Lamb  in  instinct, 
wit  and  disposition,  and  down  to  the  day  of  his 
death  carried  with  him  the  buoyant,  lavish  heart  of 
youth. 

Earth  is  poorer  for  the  passing  of  Irving  Browne. 

E.  H. 


SO   HERE    ENDETH  BALLADS  OF  A  BOOK-WORM, 

BY  IRVING  BROWNE.  DONE  INTO  A  BOOK  BY 

ME,  ELBERT  HUBBARD,  AT  THE  ROYCROFT 

SHOP,  WHICH  IS  IN  EAST  AURORA,  NEW 

YORK,  U.  S.  A.,   &   COMPLETED   THIS 

TWENTY-FIRST  DAY  OF  APRIL, 

MDCCCXCIX 


<3  a 
\ 


